


Aimless Bullets

by StrayLupum



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Denial of Feelings, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Far Future, Feelings Realization, Fights, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, Fist Fights, Future, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Maybe - Freeform, Military, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Politics, Prison, Prison Sex, Rape, Sci-Fi, Science Fiction, Secret Mission, Slash, Slow Burn, Some Plot, Space Marines, Space Prison, ex-military, religion mentions, space
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27065428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrayLupum/pseuds/StrayLupum
Summary: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥.𝐒𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐦?𝐊𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰._________________________________________illustrations available!
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	Aimless Bullets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, it's my 10th work here, and it must be an original, right? :">
> 
> not beta-ed since my beloved beta and dearest person Mary_Madison_Jude is busy and i don't not to overload them with my endless writings.  
> if you want to help - u r welcome!
> 
> i love comments, so dont be shy to leave them ^^  
> 

_“No burdens._

_No further debts to be paid.”_

Litany of Hellenic bounty hunters before dying.

___________________________________________________

_“...Golden Years (GY), known as Earth Years (EY), or Standard Calendar (SC)._

_Every system has its own unique smaller calendars but all of them are converted into GY since the Earth has always been and is and will be the holy planet, the cradle of great space human civilization…”_

_“...Nowadays Earth is forbidden to visit by anyone who doesn’t belong to the higher ranks of solar administration. Earth is a neutral territory as well as the whole Milky Way galaxy._

_Earth never participates in any conflicts...”_

extracts from the “Origins of the space civilization” 

___________________________________________________

  
  


“Miss? May I…?”

She nods and the sharp movement of her head reflects dark anticipation. The cigarette holder flinches in her thin fingers, tiny ashen flakes find their way to the smooth black surface of her pencil skirt.

Miss Senator, future Miss President of the Trade Federation. In moments like this she can afford brief moments of emotional fluctuation. Though her first secretary cannot describe her as a woman of a dynamic emotional state. It’s quite the opposite. Cold as the last satellite of the Fury solar system's most distant planet, that’s what other people have in mind seeing the Lady.

And there are lots of people who wouldn’t like to see her sitting in the President’s chair.

That’s why she has asked to bring the dossier.

“Our team strongly believes that both Rastaban Upshur and Kyle-Leon Hartmann are suited to take the leadership.” 

Cold blue hologram switches on. While it’s been calibrating, the flashes of white and blue define the strict lines of Lady’s face and make her features even sharper than her glance. Miss Senator stands tall, fixes her skirt in a slow and elegant motion with a sway of hips. And only then she approaches the almost human life-sized 3D projection. The strictly straight cloth of white hair is enlightened and colored by the hologram. 

The endless dark ink of her eyes catches the glance of both prisoners she has the pleasure of being familiar with. Probably it’s more about business luck, not pleasure. There’s nothing pleasant in dealing with war criminals, but the end justifies the means.

“Why them? What about other candidates?”

No doubt those men cannot see her, but their postures, their way of looking at the camera speak volumes. Narrowed eyes, thin lines of the lips, strong jaws, energetic chins. Hands behind their backs, squared broad shoulders, their feet 12 inches apart – the very first sign of the military people. And similar hair cut, buzz cut, the shortest a prison or army can provide. Pragmatic nature, that’s the thing about militaries.

Their way of looking was that of the very first sign of a predator ready to tear the trachea out of a human with their bare teeth. Lady knows it’s just an illusion, but an irrational small part of her whispers: don’t turn your back to them, even to the lifeless hologram, they are dangerous, _they are the danger_.

“We wanted to offer a contract to Roy Galanis, but Miss… Er… The newcomer, a young man, he...well...” The secretary fusses around, trying his best to create a new hologram mugshot to the right of Kyle. “...he caused lots of grief, ma’am. Our best people were injured during–”

During detention, he wants to say. But it seems too obvious for Lady. She doesn’t like wasting time. Time isn’t _just_ money, but _power_.

“Anyone died?”

Secretary shivers at the sound of her suddenly loud and demanding voice.

“N-no, no deaths, Miss. Our soldiers were fast to turn off the life supplies of his jet fighter. The young man just turned out to be too...resilient. Now he is delivered to the Ouroboros, nothing to worry about.”

“You consider him as the last operational unit? Have you found any leverages?”

This newcomer has a typical undercut, a well-known style of the Hellenic solar system overpopulated by the pure scam bounty hunters. He looks like he hates the viewer of the photo, the maker of the photo, and everything connected with the moment of taking it.

Bounty hunters are nothing but a stingy pain in the most sensitive spots of every solar system, except their native one, of course. Poor, uneducated, barbarians and thieves, people without any morals who steal everything that’s not tied down. And if it is, they find thousands of ways to get the thing they want.

However, Hellenics are good war units since the tough school of life forces them to survive. Every Hellenic citizen, if they are not of the prosperous caste, pulls through the tons of the tortures and pain, and challenges not every Fury marine can survive. And the Fury system is called ‘Fury’ for a good reason.

“...name’s Kith O’Dorain. Age: twenty-five GY. A bounty hunter, caught with the crown of Her Majesty, the Queen of...”

Something in the eyes of an uncertain color attracts her.

Like she has seen him already, in the previous life.

“...we think, either Upshur or Hartmann is able to train him, Miss. Not others, since those two have huge military experience including training and successful suppression of the rebels. Also, both Upshur and Hartmann work on the Purgatory level, and they keep themselves up...”

And they’re both native-born in the Spartan system. Great mentor spirit, solid willpower, and valuable skills of persuasion. Some people believe in the special Spartan charisma, but Lady feels sick when hearing this absurdity. Spartans are not charismatic for mere people, for civilians. Maybe, for soldiers. But those guys don’t need much to be attracted.

All right. She doesn’t have much time.

“Look after this Kith. I’m sure the boy has some tricks up his sleeve.” She takes the last puff and lowers the hand with the holder. “What is it that people always say, if you deal with Hellenics, get prepared to lose your sleep. If you don’t, you’ll lose your face.”

***

One more face cut off and thrown away, but he still doesn’t see any sign of the exit. Screams and futile attempts of a guy to ease his pain end with the gurgling noises. Scavenger’s throat bulges as the blood pulses and with every thrust finds its way out.

It’s hot here, too hot to save the usual pace. He can’t run and run without paying attention to the level’s peculiarities. Sweat drops down from his chin with a mix of panic and confusion. _Here_. No chances to escape. He is trapped, and trapped for years if his sentence is not life-long. Everything happened already. And now Kith can either make his way through this heat, full of corpses and distant cries of a place to the cell level, or he will stay here. As a part of the sticky layers under his feet. Sticky, crunchy, and flapping floor covered with human flesh and skin torn off the bodies, and bones.

His palms stick to the dagger’s hilt, and it’s pretty bad for him. Despite the fact there’ve been just a few scavengers on his way, he is sure he will meet more.

The Ouroboros prison was built for all sorts of criminals, even for the higher ranks, even for the political renegades. The edge of the Kali solar system, on the borderline with the Fury system, it’s the most distant, the most abandoned place of the known space, and Kith has no idea how he actually got caught, almost red-handed.

Everything started just nice, he got the crown and was on his way to the customer’s meeting asteroid, and half-way through Kali the space police attacked him. It was a brutal sudden assault that started with the switching of the life supply systems off. Thankfully, Kith had some tricks, but those just prolonged his fight for a couple of extra punches into his solar plexus.

His baby, Arcadia, the toughest jet he has been supporting and updating for the last five GY’s, his first and the only one, was destroyed and those damages were lethal.

The very last things, his _own_ things, Kith has saved: a half-empty backpack with, well, he doesn’t even remember what’s there, and his weapon – Hellenic steel, pure and solid metal, heat-resistant, a couple of daggers. A thrower one, and a simple military model with the handle adjusted to the knuckle-duster form.

Police have thrown him to the hub where Kith has met a wide – diameter counted in miles – tube with the gravity perverted so badly that every single criminal caught felt his guts twitching and tying into a knot.

It's long-term falling when human lungs shrink and every attempt to breathe in or out transforms into a fight for life. Panic, fear of not reaching the floor at all, or meeting it with fatal implication, the fear of losing oxygen, the terror of facing the more frightening problem – this scar is engraved forever in the mind. With the body’s reaction: trembling bones feel like jelly, disorientation, and suspicion of vertigo to start again, the effect of the prison ‘Welcome’ stays with criminals forever.

The state of the almost-lost-conscious doesn’t end as the criminal is departed to the entrance of the level they were assigned to.

For Kith, it’s Purgatory level. And it’s not his lucky day at all.

Purgatory means you have something to give.

Purgatory means you have something to kill you for.

Purgatory means there are scavengers to kill you or to rape you or both, or if you’re a high-rank to follow someone’s order and make whatever it is said to do with you.

Purgatory is the fucking automated system of the corpse cleaning. It includes flamethrowers and huge blades similar to the harvesters Kith has once seen on the Demeter, the only planet with breeding soil in the Hellenic system.

“Shit!”

A flame spurt licks his left side at the moment of the brief jump. He is safe, but the part of his leather jacket and the jet jumpsuit has fused to his skin.

It hurts awfully, but the shock and the adrenaline his body is still able to produce save his life.

Again.

“Well-well, a new piece of scam ‘ere. Whad’ya say, guys? Shall we play a bit?”

Scavengers.

A huge group of scavengers.

Eight tall men, with grins on their faces covered with blood, stains of copper, and dark russet color. Only one of them is not smiling – because he is firing a cigarette and taking a step back. His glance is more examining than others’. He doesn’t look interested in the prey at all. Next to him – a guy in round glasses with his right hand under a thick cover of a white cast, not stained with dirt or blood or any other thing Purgatory is rich in. A strange couple has a chat, but the howling and scratching of the Purgatory level mechanisms don’t allow Kith to catch any word.

One of the scavengers is approaching him, the others are just watching and laughing, confident fuckers.

This one has the usual uniform, just as others do: a black jumpsuit – all scavengers wear the black robes during the works on the Purgatory level – under the fireptorecting layers; elbows and knees have metal plates, tactical gloves with additional armor on knuckles for a steadier hit.

Two-filter dust masks hang on scavengers’ necks freely. Maybe, the main ‘flame purge’ has already ended.

“Nice daggers, sweetie.”

Kith’s grip on the curved blade dagger tightens. This one is for cutting faces off. And the guy has no protection. If he attacks alone, he will lose his grin. And if Kith finally meets the right side of the Fortune, he has at least a chance to run away.

But if they decide to commit a group assault?

No, no way. It’s a narrow hall, walls limit the space not only for him but also for the crowd.

Well, if the Spartan system could face the Republic peacemakers in the narrow passage of the Gates and win…

***

“Look at him! Kyle, just look at him! The boy’s got skill! Just look, look! Oh my…! Is it the face?! Holy shit, he cut off Harry’s face!”

There’s nothing to look at: a dirty punk, old jumpsuit – the prisoners are more than familiar with all kinds of jumpsuits. His hair is cut in a style people don’t use anywhere except several systems: those shaved temples and the back of the neck, a black ridge of hair left on top of his head. A strange look. Pretending to be dangerous, but not for Kyle.

He sighs and lets the white pure cloud fly out of his lungs. Disappointment – that’s the proper name of today's shift and today’s crop. They have found just a few scared to death thieves and one National Fury bank accountant who laundered money in truly space amounts. An idiot who met the big money and couldn’t resist the temptation to take as much as possible.

Now all of them are departed to the cell levels. And soon Kyle and his team will join their new ‘mates’ for the next don’t-give-a-shit how many years.

“Holy Christina! Look, Kyle, look!”

Joe sounds like tripping, and Kyle is sure he is.

Too enthusiastic, too loud even for the Purgatory. But he is right: the brat’s got a skill. He is tiptoeing around the twins. Actually, Clark and Mark are not twins or even relatives, but they are dumb enough to dye their hair in one color, make the same tattoo, and… Kyle doesn’t want to think about other things they do the same way.

 _Cutting faces_.

Hence, he is a Hellenic. A bounty hunter most probably, otherwise the boy wouldn’t have been thrown here. That explains his fighting style. Not bad at all, even if Kyle tries to judge as an ex-marine, the boy’s good. Very good, taking into account the injury of the right side, Kyle doesn’t know where it’s from, but he sees the clothes melted and charred, and it can mean the newbie met the Purge machine.

Dancing and hopping around like he doesn’t need the air to breathe like no gravity can hold him and like he hasn’t had the experience of the frightening flight down here. The Hellenic doesn’t allow the twins to approach, he keeps the distance, but when needed he is here, a flash, a quick strike of the lunar gun. Barely visible if you try to trace down his movements, but for Kyle, it’s too easy to read him.

He is not unpredictable at all.

Classic eastern kicks and a series of heavy punches become a surprise, but he can see: the boy’s tired already. And he is forced to choose only one fight tactic because of the burn and because of the deep cut above his left brow.

“You need the guy. Either you or Rastaban and I bet he will fuck the kid up.” Joe’s whisper is too close and too hot, it stinks like a three-day corpse left under the blazing beams of the Purge artificial sun. Kyle will talk about drug use before their shifts with him. “You know: he will squander such a talent!”

The Hellenic succeeds to beat both twins.

He doesn’t waste his time cutting faces off now. Good boy, he knows his time.

But Kyle doesn’t see any profit. What’s in it for him? What’s the benefit of saving one’s life? Just to have a new, one of many, fresh ass in his cell? Fresh blood – fresh entertainment? Dubious reason to clash his interests with Rast’s, but...

When he finds the wild glance of the right green Hellenic eye, Kyle doesn’t remember himself. It’s some sort of a spell prison drugs provide to the bored detainees. Adrenalin boils, his blood runs too fast and the mind is now led by the primal instincts. Fight. Show his dominance. Fight and win. Fight for a prize.

_Better than Joe’s stuff._

A second – to get rid of the cigarette; one more – to push Rast and kick one of the twins, seems it’s Clark, away.

“If you win, princess,” Kyle takes his dust mask off and throws it to Joe. Rolls up his sleeves. “you can take my cigarette pack and whatever from my suit you find attractive. But if I win...”

The Hellenic boy wipes the blood from his brow in a nervous, too quick gesture. It doesn’t help, it only makes the wound bleed and disturb him.

“...you will come with me, no tricks.”

Blood spit misses just inches to reach Kyle’s boots.

“No further debts to be paid, filthy scavenger.”

Hellenic’s litany words start their fight. Stupid fools believing their religion of getting more prosperous by stealing things that can help them in the fight.

There’s nothing after death, Kyle wants to say when his first punch reaches Hellenic’s chin. The blow is sluggish, he knows it, the boy is fast, beautifully fast, he doesn’t get hurt too much. But his weak spots are exposed. Kyle needs to knock the daggers off, and this parody on the fistfight will be over.

With lips tightly pressed, with one eye shut – because of the bleeding – the Hellenic ducks under his left hand. Registering the ripples of pain through his torso, Kyle smirks. He’s almost sorry for this punk. Why is he fast here and now, not _there_ , not _before_ they caught him? Silly self-confident bird, silly princess.

It’s a heck of a shot, Kyle is ready to praise the punk. Almost.

He’s still got his fucking daggers.

Of the _Hellenic_ steel, of fucking course. But steel is truly nice, expensive.

Thanks to the burn, Kayle doesn’t need to reach the boy's kidneys from his position. The second punch is enough to double him over and expel the last bit of the choked, smoked Purgatory air from the exhausted young body. One round kick – and the curved blade is on the floor. The second dagger looks like a brass knuckle, it’s a bit harder – no, not harder, it’s a bit more interesting to play to get rid of it.

No more than two lazy kicks and one portion of the joint crack.

“C’mon, princess. Are all Hellenics this bad or is it just your frigid nature?”

With a notable effort, the boy stands straight, eye – the only open – red with rage, shifty and narrowed. Oh, well. He is still trying to count his chances and tries to stand on his feet. But Kyle has him where he wants, already. Everything’s under control. Obviously, the kid doesn’t like fighting at close range, and some wrestling tricks will just make it end faster and easier.

A short slide and the kid falls right into Kyle’s chokehold.

“Gotcha, princess.”

___________________________________________________

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the illustration i've made you can find on my twitter acc (https://twitter.com/nymph_sidora)


End file.
